


What Might We Deduce

by swinggal138



Series: Sherlock's Equal [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Books, Corpses, Crime Scenes, Developing Relationship, Dismemberment, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swinggal138/pseuds/swinggal138
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade finds love after his wife leaves him for another man. Sherlock also finds the one woman who might be able to put up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John, why are we here?”  
“Because, Sherlock, you owe me. You fake your own death, vanish for three years, then reappear with very little apology. The least you can do is grab a drink with me.”  
Sighing resignedly, the consulting detective entered the pub behind his friend. He surveyed the room, taking in the various patrons; no one exciting, there never was. Such ordinary minds, easy to deduce, and all so very impressed when he did. He knew he was gifted and didn’t need the constant variations of amazement each time; it was really just annoying.   
He and John sat down at a table, each ordering scotch. Sherlock rarely indulged in alcohol but he did enjoy scotch every now and then. The two were sipping on their drinks, discussing a recent case, when the door opened and an attractive grey-haired man in a nice suit strode in.  
“Greg, over here,” John said, signalling to the gentleman.  
“You invited Lestrade too?”  
“Yes. It won’t kill you to be social for one night, Sherlock.”  
“I am social; I’m just selectively social.”  
“Well tonight, I’ve selected for you, so suck it up.”  
The DI joined them at the table, ordering a martini, dry. Sherlock greeted him with a nod. The three men conversed for a bit but John was soon distracted when the woman he was dating came in. He went over to talk with her, leaving Greg and Sherlock at the table.  
“Figures. This outing was his idea and he leaves for a woman. Such sentimentality, totally useless.”   
“You know Sherlock, it wouldn’t hurt you to find yourself a girl. Relationships are a good thing.”   
“Why?”  
“Connecting with another person. Sharing your life with someone.”  
“Your argument would hold more validity if you weren’t divorced from your wife who cheated on you.”  
Greg chose to ignore that comment, surveying the various women in the place. Most were with someone but two stood out. Sitting at the bar, they appeared to be quite young, probably late twenties, but they were both very beautiful. One had brown hair, styled in victory rolls, and she was wearing a vintage, khaki dress, with bright red lipstick playing across her lips. Actually, once Greg spotted her, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He normally didn’t go for the younger girls but there was something unique about this one, a maturity that just shone from her. His eyes travelled briefly to her friend, a girl with bright red, curly hair that fell to just past her shoulders. She wore a dark green sweater dress, a gold loop belt, antique lace tights, and looked incredibly bored, almost as bored as Sherlock.  
“Come on Sherlock. We are going to talk to those girls sitting at the bar.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I want to meet that girl in the khaki dress. And you should meet more females in general.”   
Sherlock just stared boredly, making no motion to get up.  
“Sherlock, don’t tell me you’re scared of talking to a woman.”  
His eyes flashed with indignation.  
“Talking to women doesn’t intimidate me.”  
“Then prove it.”  
“Fine,” he said, standing up.  
The two men approached the girls. They smiled as Greg introduced himself and Sherlock.  
“It’s nice to meet you,” the one in the khaki dress said, “I’m Alice. This is Anne.”  
Anne gave a polite wave and smile before turning back to take a sip of her drink. Greg was about to offer to pay for their next round when Sherlock, who had been studying Alice for a minute, interrupted him.  
“This one, that you said you were interested in, is simple. Judging by the marks on her wrists she works in an office, probably a writer based on the amount of typing needed to make those marks. Probably something in fashion based on how the first thing she looks at upon meeting a person is their clothes and judging by her outfit, vintage fashion specifically. She’s American, from her accent, not hard. Hasn’t been here long seeing as she still radiates the excitement of being in a new place, eyes open, observing all around her like a tourist taking it all in. But not a tourist, recently working because the marks on her wrist are still there and would have faded by now if she was simply on holiday. So, lives not far from here, hair damp from walking in the rain but not wearing shoes conducive to walking long distances. She drinks gin, not to seem classy, like most people, but because she genuinely likes it. She loves to read, is a romantic, and since she likes old things, she will definitely like you, Lestrade. See, I can talk to women.”  
Greg just covered his eyes with his hand, shaking his head. So much for making a good impression.  
“Wow,” Alice said, staring at him, “That was impressive.”  
Sherlock smirked and turned to leave when Anne spoke up.  
“No it wasn’t.”  
Sherlock turned around, half glaring at her.  
“Wasn’t what?”  
“Impressive.”  
He just raised his eyebrow at her.   
“It was power of observation. Why should I be impressed that you observed your surroundings?”  
Greg looked at Anne, grinning; no one ever talked to Sherlock like that. Sherlock, meanwhile, wasn’t sure how to react; he was not used to that reaction. But he was determined to have the last word. He glanced over her to make his deductions but he was surprised to find he couldn’t. He made plenty of observations but no conclusions; this girl was a walking contradiction. Her hair was not styled and she wore no make-up yet her look was very specifically put together and she was aware of her appearance. He glanced at her right hand: ink. Writer? He glanced at her left hand: engine grease, under the nails. Mechanic? Something in a lab? She was drinking scotch. Just trying to impress? She interrupted his train of thought.  
“Any deductions about me?” she asked with an amused grin.  
“Why would I bother telling you things you already know about yourself?” he said, taking a seat next to her and ordering another scotch. Lestrade looked at Sherlock, confused at his decision to stay but not complaining as he sat next to Alice, ordering both of them another drink.  
Anne glanced over at the tall man, still a bit peeved at his cocky attitude.  
“Don’t feel obligated to stay,” she told him.  
“I never feel obligated to do anything,” he retorted.  
Greg and Alice sat chatting and flirting while Sherlock and Anne sipped their scotch in silence. Finally, he spoke,  
“You think that all I do is observe. Well, I would like to see if your powers of deduction are as keen as mine because most people see but don’t actually observe.”  
For the next half hour, Sherlock pointed people out to Anne and she told him what she noticed. More than once, he tried to catch her on something she missed but she always finished his thought; it was quite irritating yet he was intrigued. Boredom contantly plagued his mind as he dealt with ordinary people; but she was far from ordinary.  
Anne finally finished her scotch and stood to leave. She turned to Alice,   
“I think I’m going to head home. Will you be okay?”  
“Yeah, I’ll be good.”  
“I’ll make sure she gets home safely,” Lestrade promised.  
“Thank you Greg. I’ll see you when you get back, Alice.”  
Sherlock finished his scotch as well, put on his coat, and wrapped his scarf around his neck.   
“I will see you back to your flat.”  
Anne turned to look at him, her eyes a mixture of annoyance and amusement.  
“Do you think me incapable of defending myself, Mr. Holmes?”  
“Yes. You are American, and, like your friend, haven’t been here long. Logic and safety would dictate thatt someone who knows the city should walk with you, especially after you have been consuming alcohol. Also, I may be a highly functioning sociopath but I am still a gentleman who can see a lady home.”  
Anne conceded and walked with him to the door. After moments of uncomfortable silence, he spoke,  
“So, what is it you do, Anne?”  
“No. Don’t make small talk. You’re not good at it.”  
Once again, his eyes blazed with indignation and they walked the rest of the way in silence. He gave her a polite goodbye and left. She let herself in, put her pajamas on, and curled up with her book, trying to put the entitled man out of her mind.

. . .

Across the bar, John noticed Sherlock's exit and approached Greg and Alice.  
"Hi, John Watson," he introduced himself to Alice, "Greg, did Sherlock just leave the bar with an actual woman?"  
"It would appear so..."  
"Alright then. Well, I am a bit nervous about what I will find when I get home tonight. Granted, I live with Sherlock so I'm always nervous about what I might find when I get home."


	2. Chapter 2

About an hour later, Anne heard a key turn in the lock and Alice walked in. Anne raised her eyebrows at her,  
“So...you and Greg? Tell me! Spill!”  
“He’s really nice. I like him. He says he is the Detective Inspector so he works quite a bit. Divorced, wife cheated on him sadly. Definitely a gentleman; paid for my drinks, walked me home, and didn’t try anything other than a kiss on the cheek. And he asked for my number, promising to call me soon.”   
“That’s great. He seemed really nice. A bit old though, don’t you think?”  
“You know, it did concern me a bit at first but you know my experience with men my own age. He is mature and seems to appreciate my intelligence and my maturity; I am not making promises for where it goes but I would like to see him again.”  
“Well, you have my full support. He did make a great first impression. And he is incredibly attractive!”  
“Yes, he is definitely that. So is his friend, the one you were talking to.”  
“What?”  
“Are you really going to tell me you didn’t notice?”  
“Not really.”  
Alice just gave her a look.  
“Ok, I noticed. But it doesn’t make up for his rude behavior.”  
“I wouldn’t say it was rude, necessarily.”  
“Well, not polite anyway, It’s not polite to go up and just start making observations about people, no matter how correct they might be. Also, he acts entitled and you know how I feel about entitled people.”  
“True. Well, Greg told me that he can be a bit socially awkward but that he really is a good guy. Incredibly intelligent.”  
“Fair. But it doesn’t really matter anyway since I have no plans to see him again.”  
“You’re intrigued by him! I can see it in your eyes.”  
“Fine. Yes, I am intrigued by his intelliegence and yes I find him attractive. But he still was rude and entitled and I have no desire to see him again.”  
Alice just gave a knowing nod that said she didn’t believe a word of that, as she headed for the kitchen to grab some water.  
“Also,” Anne continued, “can I just say that for someone so smart, you would think he could find a shirt that actually fits him. That black shirt was so tight, I felt bad for the poor buttons; thought they were about to pop off.”  
Alice just laughed and headed off to bed, leaving Anne with her book in front of the fire.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later, Greg called Alice to ask her on a proper date. They agreed to meet the next day at a coffee shop, then he was going to take her on a small tour around London, show her some of the lesser known places she hadn’t seen yet. Alice dressed in her tight blue pencil skirt, white button-up shirt, and dark pink sweater; she thought she looked very mature and classy. Anne voiced her own approval of the outfit as Alice ran out the door to meet Greg. It was a fairly nice day, although cloudy, as most days were in London it seemed. She walked the few blocks to the coffee shop, discovering Greg was already there, waiting for her with a vanilla latte; he had asked her the night before what her favorite drink was. She smiled at him as she sat down.  
“Hey. Thank you for the coffee. How are you?”  
“I’m good. You look lovely, by the way.”  
“Thank you.”   
He looked pretty great himself in a striped button-up shirt, dress pants, and dark blazer. And Alice had to admit his smile made her quite weak at the knees. They sat drinking their coffee, talking about their interests, hobbies, jobs. There was only so much Lestrade could tell her about his work but he promised to take her to the sites of a few cases he worked on during their London tour. They finished their coffee and headed outside. He directed her towards their first stop; the Tower of London. Alice actually hadn’t been there yet and Greg said he had worked on a case there about three years ago; a very interesting case. They strolled down the street and after a few moments, Greg tentatively reached over and took her hand. She smiled at him and intertwined her fingers with his.   
For the next few hours, they spent their time touring London, Greg showing Alice things she would have missed otherwise. Sometimes they walked to the place; sometimes they took a taxi. Alice quite often caught him staring at her while they rode or walked and she loved how excited he got when he talked about his work; it was clear it was his passion. By the end of the day, they had gone everywhere from The Whispering Wall to Kensington Gardens. As the hour was growing later, Lestrade got a call and apologized that he had to cut the evening short; a new case had come up apparently. “But please let me see you back to your flat.”  
“I would like that.”  
He hailed a taxi and they rode back to her flat. They walked hand in hand to the door. He smiled down at her for a moment.  
“Thank you for a wonderful day,” she said, returning his smile.  
“The pleasure was all mine.” he replied, leaning down to kiss her softly on the cheek.   
He got back in the cab as she unlocked the front door and walked up the stairs to her flat, grinning from ear to ear.


	4. Chapter 4

Anne was sitting in her pajamas with a cup of tea and a book in front of the fire when Alice walked through the door.   
“Well you look happy...good date I take it?”  
“The best. Greg is such a gentleman. And he truly seems to adore me which is quite a refreshing change after Nick.”   
“Good. You deserve someone who makes you feel wonderful and amazing because you are. He seems like a great guy and I honestly think that the age difference will be a good thing for you.”  
“I think so too. I still want to take things slow but I get the feeling he does too.”  
“That’s good. So...did he kiss you?” Anne said, an excited grin on her face.  
“Only on the cheek. He did hold my hand most of the day though.”  
“That’s cute! Second date?”  
“Actually yes. He wants to make me dinner next week. Here actually.”  
“Say no more; I promise to make myself scarce that night.”  
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I’ve never had a man make me dinner before; I’m kind of excited.”  
“That is a very sexy quality I must say.”  
“So, have you heard from Sherlock again?”  
“No,” Anne eyed her suspiciously, “why would I?”  
“Just curious,” Alice replied, with a smirk in her voice.


	5. Chapter 5

The following week, Alice was putting the final touches on her outfit. She had chosen something slightly more casual since it was a second date and they were stayin in; skinny jeans and a red striped top. Her hair was down for once, curled and falling just at her shoulders. As she touched up her red lipstick in the mirror, there was a knock on the door of her flat. Smiling, Alice walked over and answered it.   
“Wow,” Greg said, taking in her appearance, “you look great.”  
“Thank you,” she said, blushing, “you look incredible too.”  
He was wearing a purple button-up shirt and jeans; Alice was a sucker for purple on men, no idea why. She opened the door wider and invited him in. He brought the bag of food he had with him into the kitchen and set about cooking.  
“Have you ever had shepherd’s pie?”  
“Not yet.”  
“Well you are in for a treat then; it is my specialty.”  
As he cooked, the two of them chatted about their week. Alice asked how his case was going and he inquired as to what she was writing about for the next issue of the magazine she wrote for. Soon the flat was filled with the delicious smell of meat, cheese, and potatoes. They sat down at the little table and ate, exchanging glances and smiles over the meal. Afterwards, Greg insisted on cleaning up the kitchen, once again impressing Alice with his gentlemanly ways. Once everything was clean, he poured them each a glass of the dessert sherry he had brought and they settled in front of the fire Alice had lit earlier. Anne and Alice’s flat was set up so that they were able to pile a bunch of pillows and soft things to recline on in front of the fireplace and still have their telly set up in front of the couch. Greg and Alice settled on the pillows, facing each other, sipping their sherry.  
“Thank you for making dinner. It was delicious.”  
“You’re welcome. Cooking is a hobby of mine; I’m glad to have someone to do it for now.”   
He suddenly looked a bit uncomfortable.  
“Not to imply that I have you or anything like that. Sorry. Now I’m rambling a bit. I admit I am not great at this, been out of the dating world for a bit. Actually, not had great experiences with relationships, my wife cheating on me and all.”  
“It’s okay. I have not had the best experience with relationships myself and have no objections to taking things slow.”  
Greg gave her an inquiring look.  
“Care to elaborate? I mean, you don’t have to.”  
“My ex-boyfriend, Nick, was not the greatest man in the world. Actually, he cheated on me three times so I know how you feel. I always broke up with him when I found out but somehow he would always come back, all repentant, and I would take him back. When I was first offered the position at the magazine, I almost turned it down; Nick and I had just gotten together again and I was thinking things might actually work out. Then he cheated on me again and I decided that was the end of it. I moved here to get away from him, make a new start.”  
Towards the end of her explanation, Alice started to feel tears forming in her eyes, and she tried to control the choke in her voice. Greg moved closer to her, put his arms around her shoulders, and planted a light kiss on her temple.  
“I’m sorry to hear that. He is clearly an idiot for letting you go; he didn’t realize what a treasure he had.”  
“Thank you,” Alice said, swiping the back of her hand at the one tear that escaped down her cheek.  
“So, how does Anne come into the equation? Her moving with you and all?”  
“Well, Anne decided she wanted a change. She had a temp job back in the States; she likes to stick to temp jobs really. If you hadn’t noticed yet, she is easily bored. So, when she heard that I was moving here, she applied for a bunch of jobs, got offered a position as a part-time writer and moved with me. LIke I said, she gets bored easily so moving wasn’t a hardship.”  
“Any past relationships for her? Or current attachments?”  
“She’s had one or two relationships in the past, short lived though. She is really quite smart and so it takes a special man with high intelligence to hold her attention. Relationships aren’t exactly her thing usually, too much else going on in her head most of the time.”  
“Wow, that sounds familiar. She really would be perfect for Sherlock.”  
“Yeah, as long as they didn’t kill each other first.”  
They both laughed and continued sipping on their drinks, that relaxing feeling of alcohol seeping into their bones. Gazing into the fire, they were both quiet for awhile, Greg’s hand now resting behind her on the floor and her head leaned into his shoulder. Finally, Greg broke the silence.  
“I really am sorry to hear about your ex. I honestly can’t imagine why anyone would want to cheat when they have a girl like you.”  
“Thank you. I was really thinking the same thing about your ex-wife. She clearly couldn’t see what she had.”  
Greg set down his now empty glass and gazed at Alice.   
“I know you said you wanted to go slow; I do too. But would it be okay if I kissed you?”  
Alice smiled and blushed.  
“Yes, but I feel I should warn you, I’m not very good. Nick made that very clear to me on multiple occasions.”  
“Now, I don’t believe that. He is only a boy, knows nothing about kissing. You deserve to be kissed by a man, one who sees how beautiful and enchanting you are, and conveys that to you through his kiss.”  
Alice was only able to give a small nod as Greg placed his fingers under her chin, lifting her mouth to his and capturing it in a languid kiss, filled with affection and love. He kissed her as if he had never been able to kiss a woman like that before because she wouldn’t have appreciated it. After a moment, he broke the kiss and stared into Alice’s eyes.  
“Yes, your ex was definitely wrong. You are wonderful at kissing. In fact, I think I want to experience it again.”  
And he dipped his mouth to hers again, the hand sitting behind her wrapping around her waist to pull her close. Alice returned the kiss, setting down her own glass and sliding her hand up his chest and into his grey hair. They kissed for a long time as the fire cracked and popped next to them.  
After awhile, the hour grew late and Greg knew he should be getting home. They got up off the floor, Greg extending his hand to help her up. The moment she stood, he once again wrapped his arms around her, pressing another kiss to her lips. He took their glasses to the kitchen, grabbed his coat, and walked to the door.  
“I had a wonderful time with you tonight,” he smiled at her.  
“I did too. Perhaps I could see you tomorrow?”   
“I would like that. I can call you when I am off work.”  
“Sounds good. I look forward to it.”  
He opened the door, leaning down to kiss her once again, then smiled and headed out the door. Alice was glowing as she changed into her pajamas. She knew it was no use waiting up for Anne; with her insomniac tendencies and a 24 hour coffee shop two blocks away, she most likely would not be home for hours and hours.

. . .

As soon as Alice started getting ready, Anne headed out the door, stuffing her computer, several notebooks and pens, and a book she was reading into her small tote bag. She headed over to what was quickly becoming her favorite coffee shop; they made a killer hazelnut latte. Since she had to be out of the apartment for hours, she figured it would be a good time to catch up on a few articles she had to write plus a random essay she was working on regarding character development of the same name throughout literature.  
A few hours later, Anne was on her third latte and had just finished her articles, beginning to open her essay, when someone came in. She looked up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, scanning the room. Seriously, could the man not buy a shirt that fits? This particular white one he was wearing beneath his coat looked tighter than the last. His eyes fell on her and she quickly glanced back to her screen, willing him not to see her. Unfortunately that was not to be. He sauntered over to her, removed his coat and scarf, setting them on the chair opposite her, and went to order coffee. As he sat back down, she looked at him in amazement. Could he act more entitled?  
“I don’t recall inviting you to sit down,” she said, half glaring at him over her screen.  
“I’m on a case and need to be able to see across the street while still looking completely natural. Talking to you provides me with both.”   
“Case? Do you work for the police?”  
“Hardly. I am a consulting detective.”   
“Consulting detective?”  
“Yes, world’s only. I invented the job. The police come to me when they can’t solve a case, which is always.”  
“Are you seriously so arrogant you invented a job?”  
“Not arrogant, bored. And you never answered me when I asked you before, what is it that you do?”  
“What? Couldn’t you deduce it by my appearance?”  
“I could draw many conclusions but they conflicted. What do you do?” he said, clearly quite irritated.  
“I work part-time for a used bookstore and also write articles for a local magazine on cultural and literary events.”  
“You have engine grease under your fingernails. Why?”  
“Well, another skill set I happen to have is working on cars. People contact me to fix their cars and such when they can’t afford the more expensive mechanics.”  
“So you’re a consulting mechanic? Sounds like a made up job to me,” he said with an arrogant smirk.  
Anne tried to protest but he did bring up a valid point. Ugh, he was infuriating. And he was disrupting her work which was another pet peeve of hers because when she was focused, her mind was constantly racing and did not take kindly to being derailed. She decided to ignore him and go back to writing.  
“So what are you doing in a coffee shop so late?”  
“Greg is making Alice dinner at our place tonight and I decided to give them privacy.”  
“Greg?”  
“Lestrade?”  
“Oh right, yes. Are they dating?”  
“I guess. And also, it is not late, unless eleven is late in your little world.”  
“It’s not eleven.”  
“What?”  
“It’s 3 in the morning.”  
Anne pondered this information for a bit. She did tend to lose track of time, even going days without eating or sleeping if she was really focused on something.  
“Oh, well no matter.”  
Sherlock just looked at her for a minute; she was intriguing. He hadn’t really met anyone who lost track of time the way he did. Although being a few hours off wasn’t that bad; he tended to be off by days sometimes.  
“Do you make a habit of staying up so late?” Sherlock asked her.  
“Yes, I’m an insomniac, always have been. Besides, sleep is boring; there are much better things I can be doing with my time.”  
“Hmm...finally someone that understands that.”  
“Did you just agree with me on something?”  
“Yes, I did. Everyone is bound to be right about something once in awhile.”  
Anne chose to ignore that comment, deciding not to remind him about her deductions she made at the pub.   
“Can I borrow your phone?” he asked.  
Anne glanced down at his phone laying next to him on the table.  
“Seriously? Your phone is right there.”  
“Yes, but I need to send a text from an unrecognized number. He will have my number already.”  
“Fine,” she said, handing it over.  
Sherlock typed something out and handed it back to her. Glancing out the window, he stood, grabbed his coat and scarf and headed out the door.  
“Well, I must be going. Talk soon. Goodbye.”  
Anne just watched him leave. Talk soon? Doubtful. She turned her attention back to her article, trying to ignore the fact that her mind was still on the detective.


	6. Chapter 6

That following Friday morning, Anne and Alice were sitting in their flat, sipping on coffee and talking like they did every Friday morning. Neither of them worked that day and it was a good time for them to catch up with each other since both were usually incredibly busy. Alice was just filling Anne in on her dinner date with Lestrade since she hadn’t actually seen her yet, as least not long enough for a conversation, when Anne’s phone announced she had a text:

Come to Peter Harrington on Fulham Road, if convenient-SH

An incredibly confused look came over Anne’s face. How in the world did she have Sherlock’s number? Actually, she figured he probably put it in when he borrowed her phone in the coffee shop. But how did he have her number?  
“Who is it?” Alice asked  
“Sherlock. He asked me to meet him at this rare book store on Fulham. How does he have my number?”  
“Well, he did borrow my phone when I was spending some time with Greg this week. Maybe he got it then.”  
“Figures. Seriously, does he ever even use his own phone?”  
“Apparently,” Alice said, indicating to Anne’s phone, which buzzed again with another text from Sherlock.

If inconvenient, come anyway.-SH

Anne was seriously confused; what in the world could he possibly want? And did he really have to be so demanding about it. She was planning on just ignoring the texts when her phone went off a third time.

Books could be in danger.-SH

Admittedly, this did get Anne’s attention. She looked at Alice and asked,  
“You think I should go?”  
“Of course!” Alice said, giving a look solely reserved for her best friend, “Listen, I know you say you can’t stand him, but I know you and I know you find him to be incredibly interesting, even if he does annoy you. I could even see your eyes light up at the last text he sent you. What did it say?”  
“Books could be in danger.”  
“Okay, clearly he knows what is important to you and you know it will bother you if you don’t go find out what it is. Go.”  
“Fine. You’re right. I’ll be back later,” she said, quickly throwing on some jeans and a jacket and heading out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Anne gave the address to the cabbie and sat back, curious as to what exactly she was getting herself into. As the taxi pulled up to the store, she wondered if the cabbie had made a mistake because quite clearly what she was being dropped off at was a crime scene. Tape surrounded the entrance to the store and police were everywhere. She checked the text again, making sure she had said the right place; unfortunately, she did. Hesitantly, she got out of the car and walked to the edge of the tape, her eyes searching for Sherlock. He suddenly emerged from the shop and walked up to her.   
“Good. You’re here. Come with me.”  
Anne followed him inside, under the tape. They went up the stairs to a small flat above the shop. Investigators and other official looking people swarmed about, Greg included. His eyes opened in shock as Anne walked in.  
“Anne?! Sherlock, what is she doing here?”  
“She’s with me.”  
“What?”  
“Anne is an expert on books and literature; I thought she might be able to provide some insight.”  
Anne looked between the two men, completely confused.  
“Wait, insight into what?”  
“This,” Sherlock said, leading her towards the kitchen.  
No matter how much warning people could have given her, she would never have been prepared for what she saw. The oven was open and a severed head sat inside, eyes closed and some blood caked around the bottom. Slowly, Anne turned to Sherlock.  
“Seriously? You couldn’t have warned me you were about to show me a severed head?”  
“Did you really need warning? You don’t seem incredibly bothered by it.”  
“Because it is polite to give people a heads up when you are about to show them a dismembered body part, no pun intended. Anyway, what does this have to do with me?”  
“Over the last week, there has been a series of rare book theft. With every book stolen, the owner of said book has been found murdered, usually in a unique and gruesome way. I was hoping you might be able to help me find the connection using your literary knowledge.”  
Anne stared at Sherlock for a moment. His eyes seemed to be sparkling almost as he tried to hide the grin on his face. Apparently, he really got off on stuff like this. No wonder he created the job he did. Also, no wonder people treated him the way they did, giving him sideways glances, sometimes even being downright rude to him. But Anne understood; she really did. Sherlock, like her, got bored with the mundane things of everyday; he liked puzzles. And what better puzzle was there than a serial killer book thief?   
“Alright. I’ll help you.”  
Sherlock just beamed at her as if he already knew she would help; he probably already did. He handed her a pair of gloves to put on and Anne went over to inspect the head.   
“This man here is the owner of the shop downstairs. The book stolen from here was a first edition of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath worth over £7,000 which, according to financial records, he purchased earlier this week. The head was found this morning by the poor cleaning lady that he paid to come clean the flat once a week.”  
“Well, judging by this, the head was cut off after this person was dead. There is too little blood for it to have been the cause of death itself. This is a gas oven so perhaps the killer used it to suffocate the victim, then cut off the head, leaving it in the oven to be discovered later and disposing of the body elsewhere.”  
Lestrade just stood there staring at her, mouth wide open in shock. Sherlock looked at her, almost seeming impressed.  
“Very good. Much more than John would have picked up on. So, any theories?”  
“One. But I need to know more about the other bodies and do a bit more research before I draw any true conclusions.”  
“That can be arranged. Let’s go.”  
Sherlock and Anne made their way through the flat and store, back outside. As he hailed a cab, a small smile played across his lips but he didn’t say anthing.   
“St. Bart’s please,” Sherlock told the cabbie, “The two other bodies are in the morgue there; I’ll ask Molly to get them out so you can examine them.”  
“Okay,” Anne said, still trying to process exactly what was happening.  
“Why did you agree to help me?” Sherlock asked.  
She looked at him for a moment, considering how to explain. After a moment of contemplation, she simply decided to go with,  
“Because it’s not boring.”  
Sherlock smiled that little half-smile again but remained silent as they pulled up to the hospital.

. . .

Entering the hospital, Anne followed Sherlock down to the morgue. A woman with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and wearing a white lab coat greeted them.  
“Hi Sherlock,” she said sweetly, then turned to look at Anne, “Who’s this?”  
“This is Anne. She’s with me.”  
“Oh,” the woman replied, her face falling a bit.  
“Molly, we need to see the other two book thief murders, if you don’t mind.”  
Molly nodded agreement and went to get the two bodies. Sherlock looked at Anne again,  
“I need to go upstairs to the lab for a moment but I leave you in very capable hands,” he said, vanishing quickly from the room.  
Anne set about examining the bodies, feeling Molly’s stare on her back.  
“You like him, don’t you?” Anne asked her.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Sherlock, you fancy him.”  
“Yes. Am I really that obvious?”  
“Well, yes, but I’m also just incredibly observant. I wouldn’t waste your time with him.”  
Molly opened her mouth to say something, looking both upset and offended.  
“No, not like that. I’m not interested in him. I’m just saying, I know people like him and you will only end up with a broken heart. People who get bored easily, especially as bored as he gets, can’t stay in relationships long. They always need something new and challenging. I’m just saving you future pain.”  
“How do you know all this?” Molly asked, genuinely curious.  
“Because I’m just like him.”  
It looked as if Molly was going to say something else but Sherlock reappeared in the room.  
“Ready to go?” he asked.  
“Yeah, I think I have all the information I need from the bodies.”   
“Great. Thank you again Molly.” And with that, Anne and Sherlock left the morgue, getting into another cab outside. Anne was about to give the driver her address when Sherlock spoke up first.  
“221 Baker Street.”  
Anne looked at Sherlock, confused.   
“We can go to my flat. I am sure I have more than enough resources there for your additional research.”  
Anne agreed and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

. . .

Upon entering the flat, Sherlock and Anne went straight to work. Grabbing a notebook, she wrote down every observation she could about the bodies. Sherlock then showed her pictures and data on the other books stolen. She had a theory but she had to be certain of her research. Using the internet and the many, many books Sherlock had scattered about, Anne began checking her facts. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be doing much. He sometimes disappeared into a room, possibly performing experiments of some sort; that’s what he appeared to be doing in the kitchen. Anne wasn’t entirely sure what they had to do with the case but she assumed Sherlock had reasoning. On occasion, Sherlock picked up his violin, playing for a while, composing.  
“Helps me think,” he explained.  
Sometimes, when Anne was deep in thought or reading an article, she would realize he was staring over her shoulder, causing her to jump at his proximity. But he never said anything. Finally, who knew how many hours later, Anne concluded her research.  
“I’ve got it!” she exclaimed.   
Sherlock put down his violin, looking at her expectantly.   
“The killer, whoever he is, is taking the books then killing the owner in a way that resembles how the author of that book died. I thought so with the whole head in the oven thing at the Sylvia Plath place but that seemed too easy. But I have confirmed that it holds true for the other two bodies.”  
Anne looked over at Sherlock, quite proud of herself.  
“Okay, but why?”  
“Why what?”  
“Why the killings? Why is he not just stealing the books and leaving the owners alone? He must have some motivation.”  
“I don’t know; I haven’t gotten that far yet.”  
“Then your deduction isn’t conclusive. Keep thinking,” he said, returning to his composing.  
Anne sat back and stared at her notes some more when her phone went off. Without looking at it, she answered.  
“Hello.”  
“Anne, where the hell are you?!”  
“Alice?”  
“Of course it’s me. Where have you been? You vanished when you got that text from Sherlock and I haven’t seen you since.”  
“I’m helping him with a case. And that was only yesterday, why are you so worried? I was certain Greg would tell you I was helping him.”  
“Yesterday? No, Anne, it’s Monday. You have been gone for almost three days now.”   
Anne set down her notes, glancing at the clock on the computer. Wow, Alice was right. How had she not noticed that?!  
“Wow, guess I really did lose track of time. Well, I’ll be home later tonight. I don’t have to work at the bookstore until tomorrow.”  
“Ok...well, glad you are okay. You had me a bit worried. I’m used to you not coming home until late but three days seemed like a long time, even for you. Anyway, I’ll let you go. See you tonight.”  
“Later.”  
Anne hung up the phone and returned to studying her notes.  
“Who was that?”  
“Alice. She was worried because apparently I’ve been gone three days.”  
“Have you? What day is it?”  
“Monday, I guess. Not sure how I didn’t notice I had been here that long.”  
Sherlock just turned back to his music but Anne noticed a smirk cross his face. She wondered exactly what he was thinking but decided to just focus on the case right now. After a few more hours, Anne felt no closer to coming to a conclusion about the killer; all she really felt was tired and in need of food and a shower.  
“Sherlock, I’m going to go home. I’ll keep thinking but I have to work tomorrow.”  
Sherlock didn’t even seem to hear her so Anne just quietly let herself out, hailing a cab.

. . .

Anne walked up the stairs and unlocked the door to her flat. Once inside, she found Alice and Greg on the couch, watching some foreign film on tv. Greg had his arm around her and Alice was cuddled on his shoulder; they really were adorable together.   
“Time flies when you’re with Sherlock, doesn’t it?” Lestrade asked.  
“Yeah, it really does. I mean, I often lose track of time but not by days, usually only hours.”  
“Any progress on the case?”  
“Not really. We figured out the reason for the bizarre methods of murder but not motivation. Anyway, I’m exhausted and I have to work tomorrow so I am going to crash. Goodnight guys.”  
“Goodnight,” they said in unison, focusing back on their movie.  
Anne walked to her room and noticed out of the corner of her eye Greg leaning down to give Alice a long, romantic kiss; it was nice to see a guy treating her so well.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day at work was slow for Anne so she spent her down time thinking about the case, mulling over details as she mindlessly shelved books.  
“You left,” a deep voice said, very close to her ear.  
Anne jumped, spinning around only to find herself face to chest with Sherlock. She looked up at the detective towering over her.  
“What?”  
“You left. My flat.”  
“Yes...last night. Did you just realize that?”  
“Last night? Oh, guess I didn’t notice.”  
“Do you just walk around your flat talking to yourself sometimes because you don’t notice when people have left?”  
“Probably. Not my fault they’re not listening. Have you come to any other conclusions?”  
“Not yet. Is that the only reason you’re here? To bother me about the case?”  
“No. I thought being around books might spark some ideas and then I could bounce those ideas off of you.”  
At that moment, they were interrupted by a woman approaching Anne.   
“Excuse me miss? Do you work here?”  
“Yes, how can I help you?”  
“I’m looking for a book my friend recommended. It has a blue cover.”  
“What was it about?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Do you know the title?”  
“No”  
“Author?”  
“Umm...no. I just remember that the cover was blue. Could you help me find it?”  
“Well, without knowing...”  
“Actually, was the cover red? I don’t remember now. I’ll have to go ask her again and come back.”   
The woman walked off and Anne just rolled her eyes. Sherlock stared after the woman.  
“Do you have to deal with that every day?”  
“Unfortunately yes. It amazes me. Ordinary people are so unintelligent I am surprised I haven’t gone on a wild killing spree.”  
Sherlock froze and looked at her.  
“Say that again.”  
“What?”  
“What you just said, say that again.”  
“Ordinary people are so unintelligent I am surprised I haven’t gone on a wild killing spree?”  
Sherlock paused for a moment then turned and abruptly left the store. Anne just sighed and went back to stocking books. She would never figure that guy out.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg and Alice wandered Kensington Gardens, hand in hand; it was becoming their usual spot to walk. They chatted about their weeks and other mundane things. Alice couldn’t believe how attached she was becoming to this man. Yet she still held reservations; attachment had not proven very fruitful for her in the past. But Greg treated her well and never pressed her for any commitment or title for their relationship. Pausing at a fountain, they sat down to rest awhile. Greg leaned over, placed his hand behind Alice’s neck, and drew her in for a lingering kiss. She sighed and said,  
“I love kissing you. You kiss me like you don’t want to be anywhere else but here.”   
“Well I don’t.”  
Alice just smiled at him and placed a kiss into his palm.   
“So,” he started, “I admit I might have a bit less time to spend with you these next few weeks. Too many cases right now, including that serial killer one that Sherlock and Anne are working on.”  
“That’s okay. I completely understand. Do you know what is going on with those two, by the way?”  
“With Sherlock, I never really know what’s going on.”  
They kissed again before rising and continuing their afternoon walk.


	10. Chapter 10

A few days later, Anne was sitting in the coffee shop again, working on her essay, when her phone went off.

Found another. Meet me at Baker Street.-SH

Her essay could wait. Excitement coursed through her body as she quickly packed up her stuff and grabbed a cab. Sherlock was waiting outside when she got there, looking as excited as she felt. Seriously, what was wrong with them? They were dealing with a serial killer; this was not supposed to be exciting.  
They arrived at the scene, a small flat on the edge of the city. Once again, police milled everywhere and Lestrade stood, waiting for them. Sherlock and Anne walked in, surveying the scene.   
“Where’s the body?” Sherlock asked.  
“There isn’t one this time,” Lestrade said, “well not in the conventional sense anyway.”  
They both gave him a confused look as he led them over to the bed sitting in the corner of the small bedroom. On it sat a pile of ash and,  
“Is that a heart?” Anne asked.  
“Apparently.”  
“So the killer burned the body but saved the heart...interesting.”  
Sherlock shot her a look that can only be described as admiration; no one but him normally found crime scenes interesting, until now.  
“What book was taken?” Sherlock asked.  
“Laon and Cyntha by Percy Shelley, first edition, signed by the author, worth £40,000. According to financial records, purchased two days ago.”  
At this, one of the men examining something in the corner decided to speak up; he had dark brown hair and a gaunt face that could give children nightmares.  
“Shelley? Isn’t that the man that wrote Frankenstein?”  
Anne turned on him abruptly,  
“Anderson, is it?”  
He gave a slight nod of affirmation.  
“Yes. Anderson, please don’t attempt to talk about literature; you bring disgrace to the entire history of the written word.”  
Sherlock beamed and shot Lestrade a look that clearly said See, I’m not the only one who knows Anderson is an idiot.  
A strange look came over Anne’s face as she processed the information between the book stolen and the victim before her; it didn’t quite fit with the original theory since Shelley died of natural causes.  
“I have some research to do,” she said, making a move to leave.  
To Lestrade’s surprise, Sherlock followed without a word.

. . .

Back on Baker’s Street, Anne poured over notes and books, trying to find information on Shelley’s death, barely giving notice to Sherlock’s flatmate standing in the kitchen making tea, watching her with interest. As she researched, Sherlock vanished into his bedroom, emerging moments later with what looked like a pair of cotton pajama shorts and a tank top. He tossed them to her.  
“What are these for?”  
“Well, I figure you have been spending more time here, might want to have something more comfortable to wear. It will free up your mind for thinking if you are comfortable.”  
“Thank you. That seems...uncharacteristically thoughtful of you.”  
His flatmate emerged from the kitchen,  
“Yes, incredibly thoughtful. Are you sick?”  
Sherlock just shot him a look as Anne vanished into the room to change. She emerged moments later.  
“And they fit perfectly.”   
“Of course they do. You think I couldn’t deduce your size?”  
His flatmate looked over at her,  
“Don’t be offended; he does that with everybody.”  
“She knows,” Sherlock responded, “and so does she.”  
“Wait, what?”  
“Anne, I’d like you meet John Watson. Tell him what you observe.”  
A few moments later, John was standing there, gaping at Anne.  
“That was...well that was incredible. There are two of you. Great. And you’ve managed to find each other. God help the world.”  
Sherlock and Anne smiled at each other and Anne returned to her research on Shelley. A few minutes later, she found what she was looking for.  
“Ah!” she exclaimed suddenly, “Yes, it does fit the pattern. Shelley did die of natural causes but apparently his heart wouldn’t burn when they cremated him due to a rare disease that causes the heart to calcify.”  
“That is very interesting. But it still doesn’t explain why the killer is doing all this. Why not just steal the books? Why murder?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“We need to find a pattern in the murders. These aren’t just random people or random books; we’re missing something.”   
Suddenly, he started grabbing random books and pieces of paper, writing random notes, author names, page numbers. Anne started making her own notes, trying to find a connection in the authors or book subjects, anything.  
“I’m going out, if anyone cares,” John said after awhile. He got no response from either.  
“No. Nothing. Alright then. You two really are perfect for each other.”  
Hours passed and Anne felt her head starting to hurt. For some reason, Sherlock being in the same room was distracting her; she needed a moment alone to think and process.  
“I need to take a shower, if that’s okay.”  
Sherlock paused in his note writing to look at her,  
“A shower? Why?”  
“I need a quiet place to think. Showers are to me what composing is to you.”  
“Alright. Bathroom is just down the hall, towels are on the shelf.”  
Anne padded down the hall, stepped into the bathroom, and turned the water on, letting it warm up for a moment before removing her clothes and stepping in. She had just finished rinsing the shampoo from her hair and was turning to grab the soap when she heard the curtain slip open a bit and someone step in behind her. Turning her head slightly, she realized there was a very naked Sherlock standing behind her. Her cheeks blazed bright red as she hissed at him,  
“Sherlock! What are you doing?! Did I in any way indicate this was a group activity?”  
“I thought about what you said and decided to see if a shower would help me think too.”  
“You can’t just get into the shower with someone!”  
“Why?”   
“Umm...modesty? decency? You just...you just don’t do it!”  
“I don’t see what the issue is,” he said, leaning over her to grab the soap, causing his chest to brush briefly against her back. He finished with the soap and handed it to her.  
“You don’t see what the issue is?”  
“No. This is not sexual, merely practical. I have nothing to hide about my body. And you have nothing to hide on yours, at least you shouldn’t.”   
He coupled this last comment with a glance over her shoulder, down her body. Finally, she turned to him, using the soap he had handed her.  
“Did you just say I have a good body?”  
He looked her over again.  
“Yes, your measurements coupled with the physical appearance of it would be considered quite pleasing to most men who find aesthetic pleasure in such things.”  
“But you don’t consider yourself one of those men?”  
“No, of course not. Sexual pleasure is just a part of the base sentimentality found to be a chemical defect of the losing side. I’ve no need of it.”  
Anne didn’t really have a response for him.  
“Are you done?” he said, leaning over and reaching behind her to turn the water off.  
They both stepped out of the shower. Sherlock wrapped his towel around his waist and left. Anne spent a bit more time drying her hair and such but also wrapped her towel around her and headed out into the flat.  
“You know Sherlock, you pretty much ruined the entire purpose of my shower by joining me. Oh, hi John.”  
John just stood in the kitchen, staring at her in her towel and Sherlock in his.  
“Nope. Not even gonna ask,” he said, grabbing a biscuit to go along with his tea, and headed into the living room. Sherlock has already gone back to his note taking, apparently not caring that he was still wearing only a towel.  
“Well, I have been up for two days and I really do need some sleep. Sherlock, do you mind if I nap for an hour or two?”  
“Use my bed,” he said, pointing to his room but not looking up from his work.  
As Anne was heading to bed, she heard John say,   
“Sherlock, it wouldn’t hurt you to sleep too.”  
Anne already knew what his reaction to that suggestion would be. She went back to the bathroom and grabbed her clothes, slipped into them, and crawled into the bed. Sherlock’s bed was fairly large with plain white sheets and a lot of pillows. It was also super comfy and Anne soon found herself drifting off to sleep. She was almost completely out when she heard the door open. Sherlock entered the room, removed the towel, and crawled into bed.  
“What are you doing? I thought you wanted to keep researching.”  
“Yeah, well John made me go to bed.”   
“You listen to what John tells you to do?”  
“Not usually but he laid out a logical argument involving my cognitive function in relation to how long it has been since I last slept.”  
“How long has it been?”  
“I don’t know, four or five days. What day is today?”  
“Yeah, you definitely need sleep,” Anne said, rolling over again.  
Sherlock also rolled over, into almost a fetal position, still pouting about the fact that he had to sleep.

. . .

The next morning, Anne awoke, finding herself alone in the bed and with only a small blanket over her. What happened to the sheet? She wandered into the kitchen, hoping for some coffee. Oh, that’s what happened to the sheet. Sherlock had apparently cocooned himself in it and was already back at work.  
“Do you ever wear actual clothes?”  
Sherlock didn’t respond, instead, he continued writing furiously.  
“I think I’ve got it!”  
“Got what?”  
“The pattern! If you take the first letter of each author’s last name so far you get S, U, R, and P. I think the killer is trying to spell a word. What word you ask? Well I did an internet search and the first word to come up was “surprise.” Surprise? Why surprise? I don’t know. But, I researched the rare book markets for the upcoming week to see what was for sale on the local ones. There are three authors whose last names start with “R” on the market but only one in his typical value range: a history volume written by Sir Walter Raleigh worth £23,000. However, I noticed that the bidding for it closes in exactly one hour. In exactly one hour, we will have our next target.”  
“That’s great. Nice catch.”  
Sherlock looked over at her, visibly disappointed. He was used to people being far more impressed by his deductions. Why was she not in awe of his skills? And why did he find her lack of reaction so intriguing?  
“So, what do you we do for the next hour?”  
“Coffee?” Sherlock asked.  
They drank their coffee in the living room, not really saying much. Sherlock’s computer emitted a beep and he walked over to it.   
“Alright. We have a buyer. Edward Hayes of the Windsor House Bed and Breakfast, just outside the city. Our killer has a habit of moving in exactly two days after the purchase. So, we go there, aprehend our suspect. Case closed.”  
“Wait, did you say we?”  
“Yes, I will be unable to do this without you...darling.”  
Anne did not like the look in his eyes as he said the word darling: what exactly was he planning?


	11. Chapter 11

The next night, Anne was packing a small bag and getting ready to head over to Baker Street. Greg had just left and Alice came sauntering into her room.  
“Where are you going?”  
“Sherlock and I are going to a Bed and Breakfast for the weekend. We leave in the morning so I am heading over there tonight.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“It’s for the case. We think the next planned victim is there.”  
“Be careful okay?”  
“I will. Sherlock knows what he’s doing. At least, he seems to.”  
“I supposed you’re right.”  
“So, you and Greg have big weekend plans?”  
“Not really. He has to work Saturday unfortunately but he will probably make me dinner that night and we will probably spend most of Sunday together too.”  
“So are you guys official yet?”  
“No. I think we both are kind of hesitant to put labels on things due to our pasts. But I like things this way. There is no pressure and he is a great guy.”  
“He does seem pretty amazing. Well, I must be off. Wish me luck!”  
“Have fun! Enjoy your weekend away with the sexy consulting detective.”  
Anne just rolled her eyes as she vanished out the door.

. . .

“Remind me again why you need me to come along?”  
“Owners of these kinds of places tend to be old-fashioned and would be very suspicious of a man staying here by himself. Which reminds me...they would also be very unhappy with an unwed couple staying here too.”   
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a diamond ring.  
“So, I’m playing your wife?”  
“Yes, newlyweds. Quite happily in love.”  
“You think you’ll be able to pull off that much emotion?” Anne asked, slipping the ring on her finger.  
Sherlock glared at her and the implication that there was something he couldn’t do. She would see; he would meet and exceed the challenge as he always did.  
They grabbed their luggage out of the back and walked towards the door. Sherlock reached over and intertwined his fingers with hers; Anne just rolled her eyes. They knocked politely and a sweet old couple opened the door.   
“Hello! You must be the Andersons! We’re so happy to meet you!  
“Yes! Hello! We so thrilled to be here! I’m Michael, this is Jessie.”  
“We love newlyweds here; so young and in love.”  
“Yes. I love this woman so much. I am the luckiest man alive!” Sherlock said, placing a series of kisses on her temple and one on her cheek. Anne sent him a look that said he was over-selling it but the couple seemed to buy it and showed them to their room. They set their stuff down and got changed for dinner; the couple had extended an invitation for Sherlock and Anne to join them. Anne glanced over at the dark purple shirt he had chosen for the occasion. Nope, this one didn’t fit either; those poor buttons.  
They went down to dinner, holding hands again. The meal was served and both couples ate in silence for awhile until the older gentleman spoke up.  
“You know, we get quite a few newlyweds here but you two are the least affectionate we have ever seen.”  
Anne kicked Sherlock under the table, telling him he needed to do something. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer, planting a rather awkward kiss on her cheek. He smiled at the couple but they were eyeing both of them suspiciously.  
“Most couples we see can’t keep their hands off each other, much less their lips.”  
Anne nudged Sherlock again.  
“Well,” he said, “we tend to keep our affections for each other in the private realm. Never know who we might offend.”  
“We’re not offended,” the older woman said.  
Anne was trying to send Sherlock sideways glances, telling him he better start kissing her now or their whole story would be blown.   
“Well in that case,” Sherlock said, reaching the hand not behind the chair across his body and placing it under Anne’s chin. He turned her face towards him and brought his lips down on hers, her hand moving to his chest. It was a gentle kiss at first; Anne could tell he was quite unsure and she was trying to convey most of the passion through her end. Then something seemed to change and passion was coming from his end. They briefly broke apart and Anne’s eyes flashed to his before he brought both of his hands up to her face, tangling in her hair and pulling her close, kissing her with more passion than even she was trying to convey originally. Her hand slipped behind his neck while the other grasped at his shirt as he continued to move his lips against hers, gently opening her mouth. Anne, realizing they were definitely over-playing it, forced him to break the kiss as she smiled sweetly at the couple and returned to her dinner. Sherlock slowly returned to his meal as well, taking a moment to collect himself, Anne noticed. They finished eating in almost near silence, neither couple really sure what to say. But Anne’s brain was definitely quite vocal; what the hell just happened?  
After dinner, Anne and Sherlock decided to go straight to bed, telling the couple they had had a long journey and were quite tired. Once settled in bed, Anne reached over to turn out the light, giving Sherlock a sideways glance. He was quiet, which was highly unusual for him but Anne decided to leave him be. As they both settled on their separate sides of the bed, Anne rolled over, her mind still racing. What was that at dinner? First there was no passion from Sherlock then suddenly he was practically attacking her face and sticking his tongue down her throat. And, she was fairly certain she hadn’t imagined it, when they had pulled away briefly and Anne glanced at his eyes, she could have sworn his pupils were dilated. Her mind continued racing on the topic until she finally fell asleep.  
The next morning, her wake up was quite abrupt. First, there was a knock on the door,  
“Morning dears. I brought you breakfast in bed on the house, a special for our newlyweds.”  
As the door knob started turning, Sherlock’s instincts kicked in and he reached over to grab Anne, pulling her against his chest and wrapping his arm around her. Thank god he was wearing pants this time. He stroked his long fingers through her hair and smiled as the older woman set two trays down on the table next to them.  
“Thank you. We greatly appreciate it.”  
“Look at you two, all cute and snuggled in bed.”  
Anne returned the woman’s smile and leaned up to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s lips, interested in seeing the reaction. Bad idea on her part because he definitely responded to the kiss and began kissing her back passionately. The older woman took this as her signal to leave and slipped out the door. Anne pulled away again,  
“What are you doing?”  
“Kissing you. A lot. Seemed the most sensible way to encourage her to make a quick exit so we can enjoy our breakfast in peace.”  
For some reason, Anne didn’t quite buy that answer. They ate their breakfast in silence then started getting ready for the day.  
“So, what’s the plan today?” Anne asked Sherlock.  
“We need to locate where he put the book. It wasn’t for some kind of decoration or display; far too valuable for that. It was clearly bought as a personal item and he is definitely going to keep it somewhere safe and close by. He’s not a very trusting person so unlikely he would keep it in a bank. No, it is somewhere in this house. If our killer holds true to his pattern, and he will, he will come for it tonight. Do you have any idea how Raleigh died?”  
“Yes. Beheading.”  
“Well that will be a nasty mess to clean up so we better get on it.”  
“So we’re just going to wander around the house looking for this book?”  
“Don’t be stupid. I’m going to find the book while you distract the old lady.”  
“And the old man? He seems pretty suspicious of us.”  
“He left for town this morning. Probably won’t be back until later tonight so he is of no matter.”  
“Alright. I can keep the old lady busy but you seriously need to make it look more like we are newlyweds.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Kissing and being affectionate is one thing. Sticking your tongue down my throat is over-doing it. I take back what I said about you not being able to show that much emotion; now tone it down.”  
An odd look crossed his eyes; Anne couldn’t quite place the emotion. But as soon as it appeared, it was gone.   
“Fine. Now, take these trays down to the kitchen and keep the old lady down there since I have a feeling the book is located somewhere up here.”  
“And what should I tell her when she asks where you are?”  
“Tell her I am feeling under the weather a bit, probably due to travelling in the damp weather yesterday, and have elected to stay in bed for the day. She is overly sentimental and will feel bad for you, vowing to keep you busy for the day so you won’t get lonely.”  
“Alright. Just let me take a shower first. And no, you are NOT joining me this time.”  
Anne jumped into the shower and let the hot water run over her; it felt good to finally get some time alone to think. But she couldn’t get her mind to focus on the case; it kept wandering back to Sherlock and the way he had been kissing her. If he was just doing it to prove a point, that would make sense. But Anne definitely picked up on something more; there was emotion behind the kiss and it didn’t make sense. She might not have a lot of experience with romance and relationships, not really her area, but she knew the difference between a fake kiss and a real one. Also, she was certain she saw his pupils dilate and that is not something you can fake or force. But he had said in the shower that he didn’t believe in sentiment and everything up to last night had seemed to confirm that point. Maybe she was just imagining things or maybe he was just excited about the case. Either way, Anne chose not dwell on it and focus on the assignment she was given. Spending her entire day with some sentimental old lady was the last thing she wanted to do, but she knew her and her husband’s life depended on it. So, she got out of the shower, dressed, and headed downstairs.  
The day passed at a tedious rate as Anne got cooking lessons, gardening lessons, drank tea, and helped the lady clean the house. A few times she was able to escape upstairs, claiming she wanted to check on her “dear husband”, and getting updates from Sherlock. As the sun was starting to set, Anne retreated upstairs once again and found Sherlock beaming as she entered the room.   
“I found it,” he said, “Hidden compartment in a desk in the room next door.”  
“Okay, now what?”  
“We go to dinner, make everything seem normal, and excuse ourselves to bed early like last night. But instead of sleeping, we wait for a murderer to make his move.”   
He was practically twitching with excitement. Anne just looked at him with a bemused smile on her face.  
“What?” he asked.  
“You really get off on this don’t you?”  
“Yes. Don’t you?”  
Anne had to concede the point; she did. This was far from boring and it excited her even more to find she was not the only person who felt that way.  
The two of them ate dinner with the elderly couple, Sherlock being much more convincing as a husband, gazing at her, placing random kisses in her hair, on her cheek, even on the lips on occasion. They helped clear the table and excused themselves to bed. Turning the lights out, they just sat and waited; most people would be anxious just waiting in the dark but it was only excitement coursing through their veins.   
Several hours later, probably somewhere around one in the morning, a scream was heard from downstairs and they sprang into action. Sherlock ran downstairs, telling Anne to stay up there and guard the book. She ran to the next room, listening to the chaos downstairs. Things were breaking and shouts were heard; Anne assumed Sherlock was in a fight with the killer. Suddenly, footsteps were heard on the stairs and Anne heard Sherlock scream her name. A figure entered the room but it was too dark for Anne to make out any distinctive features. He made a move towards her but she managed to duck out of his way. The thief then made a move for the desk and Anne threw herself on his back, knocking him down. He got up and threw her off, knocking her against the wall. She made a move to get up again but he was soon on top of her and she felt a stinging pain shoot through her arm. The last thing she remembered before blacking out was Sherlock calling her name as he ran up the stairs.


	12. Chapter 12

Anne awoke to a pounding in her head as she slowly tried to sit up. She gazed around her, trying to place where she was. After a few moments, she realized she was back in Sherlock’s bed. Anne tried to get up but her legs felt weak and her head was spinning. Just then, the door opened and John walked in.  
“Nope, just lay back down. You need to rest more.”  
“What happened? Where’s Sherlock?”  
“Well, after his unwise decision to bring you along on the crazy case...”  
“It was my decision too.”   
“Right. Anyway, he showed up yesterday with a black eye and bruised ribs, and you passed out in the cab. He said that he was able to get to the killer before he hurt the owners of the bed and breakfast but he managed to get away from Sherlock long enough to run upstairs, knock you out with some kind of tranquilizer, and escape with the book.”  
“He got away? Ugh!”  
“That’s what your focused on? Not the fact that he..? Alright. Wow, you really are just like him.”  
“Where is Sherlock now, by the way?”  
“He ran out almost as soon as he brought you here. Went to the hospital I think to look at some kind of sample he collected off the killer.”  
“Oh...can I borrow your phone? I want to text him to see what he found.”  
“Borrow my phone? No. You are going to rest; I want to make sure the poison is out of your system and that you don’t have a concussion from being flung against a wall.”  
“Fine,” Anne said, laying back down.  
As John left the room, she heard him muttering,   
“Oh, she wants to borrow my phone now too...”

. . .

Anne fell back into a deep sleep and when she awoke again, she could instantly tell she was feeling much better. Dragging herself out of the bed, she made her way into the kitchen. There, she discovered John talking with Greg and Alice; Greg had his arm around Alice’s waist and she was resting her head on his shoulder. They all turned around when Anne wandered in. John instantly walked over to her,  
“No, back in bed.”  
“John, I’m fine,” she replied, pulling away, and he knew better than to try arguing with her.  
Alice ran over to her, hugging her tight.  
“I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried about you.”  
“I’m fine. No big deal. Just a little tranquilizer; no harm done.”  
Alice rolled her eyes and Greg laughed,  
“Yep, just like Sherlock.”  
“Speaking of, where is he? We need to move fast before we have another victim on our hands. Now that we figured out the pattern, it should be easy enough to predict his next move.”  
“Yeah, I think Sherlock’s already on that. He popped in here earlier, looked something up on the computer, and ran out the door saying he would be back later.”  
“Oh, well maybe I should text him and see if he needs me.”  
Greg walked over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.  
“I’m sorry Anne. Sherlock tends to pop in and out of people’s lives. He doesn’t usually get attached and he tends to like to do everything on his own.”  
Just then Anne’s phone went off with a text alert.

Trafalgar Square. Come at once.-SH

A smile played across her lips as she looked at Greg and Alice.  
“Well maybe I’m just special then,” she grinned, showing them the text Sherlock had just sent her.  
“No, no, no,” John said, “You need to stay and rest. Doctor’s orders.”  
Anne was about to protest when her phone went off again.

Bring Alice with you.-SH

“Looks like he needs you too, Alice,” Anne said, beaming at her friend. Alice looked hesitantly at Greg. He looked unsure but finally conceded.  
“Ok, but if she goes, I’m coming too.”  
“Whatever. Let’s go,” Anne said, grabbing her coat.  
“Anyone want me to go? No. Alright. I’ll just stay here then,” John said, wandering into the kitchen, “When did I become fifth wheel in a group that includes Sherlock Holmes?”


	13. Chapter 13

The three of them got to the square which was overflowing with people, all moving about, but Anne quickly spotted Sherlock and went over to him.  
“What are Alice and Lestrade doing here?” Sherlock asked.  
“What do you mean? You told me to bring Alice and Greg would only let her go if he came along.”  
“I never asked Alice to come.”  
“Yes you did,” Anne said, showing him the text.  
His face looked over the text, taking a moment to process, when a sudden look of almost fear crossed his face.  
“That text is not from me.”  
“What?” Greg asked.  
“I did not send that text. Someone broke into my phone and sent her a text as if it was from me. There is only one man I know smart enough to do that: Moriarty.”  
“But he shot himself on the roof three years ago,”  
“Yes, Lestrade, and I jumped off the building and was bleeding on the ground, yet here I stand. Clearly, he also faked his death and now he’s back. I suspected he might be behind all this. He is somewhere nearby, I guarantee. Anne, Alice, be alert and stay close,” Sherlock said, turning around to address the girls but they weren’t there. Lestrade and Sherlock quickly scanned the crowd around them but it was clear the girls were gone. A look of panic came over Greg’s face as Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, mind trying to process.  
“Sherlock, what do we do?”  
“If Moriarty is behind this, it won’t be long before he contacts me; it’s the game he plays. Right now, we’ll return to Baker Street and wait.”  
Greg did not look reassured at all.  
“We’ll find them Greg,” Sherlock said, looking him in the eye, “I promise.”


	14. Chapter 14

Anne and Alice awoke almost simultaneously. Looking around they realized they were in a concrete room, surrounded by machinery. They were both sitting on chairs, bound with their feet to the legs and hands behind their back; neither of them had any idea where they were or how they got there. Anne just looked at Alice, a look of apology in her eyes,  
“I am so sorry you got dragged into this. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me; this is all my fault.”  
“It’s okay. I wasn’t exactly completely isolated from it, what with me dating the Detective Inspector and all. Plus, I understand why you did it.”  
“Because I was bored?”  
“Well, yes, that’s part of it. But, you also did it because you love him.”  
“What?! No I don’t. What makes you say a thing like that?”  
Alice just gave her a look, astounded that her friend was really in that much denial about her own feelings.  
“Because, I see the way you look at him, the way your eyes light up around him, the disappointment in your eyes when Greg said he left without you. You love him because he’s not boring; he’s extremely intelligent. And that’s exactly what you need. He challenges you. These last few weeks, since you met him, I have never seen you happier.”  
“Fine, say I do love him, which I’m not saying I do, it doesn’t matter. Sherlock has made it more than clear that he does not believe in sentiment.”  
“Well, I can’t say that I understand him or his feelings for you. But Greg does tell me he has never talked about any other person as much as he talks about you.”  
Their conversation was shortly interrupted when a door on the far side of the room opened and a man in a light grey suit entered the room. He slowly stalked towards them, eyes wandering over both of them.  
“Hello girls, I’m James Moriarty. And it is a sincere pleasure to meet both of you,” he said, an evil grin spreading across his face.

. . .

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock paced back and forth in the flat while Greg and John both sat in the living room, looks of worry painted on their faces. The news droned on the telly in the background, just adding to the feeling of anxiety in the room. Sherlock kept checking his phone, waiting for some word from his greatest and most intriguing enemy. Suddenly, the news turned off and was replaced with the face of the very man currently occupying Sherlock’s mind.  
“Hello Sherlock. Did you get my message? Surprise! Happy to see me?”  
All three faces turned abruptly to the screen, watching Moriarty himself, a man believed to be dead for the last three years, pace in front of the two girls bound to the chairs behind him.  
“As you can plainly see, I have two things of great value to you; and to our beloved Detective Inspector as well, whom I presume is sitting right behind you. Hello Greg. I admit, the tied-to-a-chair thing has been a bit over done. But you know me, sometimes I just have to go with the cliche.”   
Moriarty stalked back until he was standing behind Anne, placing his hands on her shoulders.  
“This one is yours I believe, Sherlock; I admit I am impressed. Never pictured you for a relationship man but,” he said, as he ran his hands over every curve of Anne’s body, making sure to draw Sherlock’s attention to the way he lingered on her chest and hips, “this one is quite lovely and I can’t say I blame you.”  
He stepped around Anne’s chair, using his fingers to roughly turn her face towards him.  
“Perhaps I might have a turn at her myself,” he said, as he leaned down and roughly planted his lips on Anne’s. Not letting an opportunity go to waste, Anne quickly opened her mouth and bit down quite roughly. He emitted a small scream and turned towards the screen, blood dripping from his lip.  
“Did she just bite him?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.  
“Apparently,” Sherlock replied, a small grin of pride crossing his face.  
Moriarty, not to be beaten, grinned eerily at Sherlock while wiping the trickle from his face. He then turned back to Anne, raised his hand high, and slapped her hard across the face; Sherlock jumped from his seat briefly, hands balled into fists. The evil man returned his gaze to the screen,  
“She’s quite feisty this one. Lucky man, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock shot a gaze of confusion at John who gave him a look that clearly told him he would explain that to him later. Moriarty then stepped over to Alice, who seemed dazed from fear and nearly in tears as she watched her friend try to recover from the blow that had caused a line of red to flow down the side of her face.  
“And this one, Detective Inspector Lestrade, this one belongs to you, I believe. Well doesn’t she look sinfully sweet and innocent.”  
He leaned into her neck and inhaled, causing goosebumps to rise on Alice’s skin.  
“She smells sweet too, like candy good enough to eat.”  
At this, he leaned into Alice, pressing his lips to hers, although this time he wasn’t stopped by a marring of teeth. He continued to move his lips against hers, eventually bringing his hand to her face. His thumb came up to her chin, applying just enough pressure that Alice was forced to open her mouth. His tongue slipped in and began exploring her mouth slowly, savoring, enjoying the moment of rubbing his victory in. After an awkwardly long time, he pulled away from her, and turned back to the camera.  
“Mmmm...she even tastes sweet.”  
Lestrade stood up from where he was sitting, trying to ignore the pain he felt at the sight of someone else kissing the girl he cared so much for; he knew she was being forced to do it and couldn’t possibly have wanted it. He looked to Sherlock for help as anger welled inside him.  
Moriarty took one last look at the screen.  
“You better come save them Sherlock; you already know where I am, I know you do. And, if you don’t come for them in time, well, you know how much I just love to end things with a bang. Toodles.”  
And with that, the screen went black. Lestrade looked at Sherlock, waiting for an answer.  
“I think I might know where they are but I need to test one more thing. Come. We’re going to St. Bart’s.”


	15. Chapter 15

Less than an hour later, Sherlock and Lestrade were in a cab, on their way to presumably stop Moriarty.  
“Sherlock, where are we going?”  
“The key is in the word our book thief killer was spelling: surprise. What is the first thing that comes to mind with that word. Birthday. Precisely. And what always accompanies a birthday party? Cake. Based on that plus the background behind Moriarty, the soil traces I pulled off our killer’s coat at the bed and breakfast, and the fact that Moriarty mentioned explosions, it puts him at an abandoned flour factory right outside the west side of town.”  
“Wait, what do explosions have to do with it?”  
“Flour is highly flammable.”

. . .

Once Sherlock and Lestrade’s cab pulled up at the factory, joined with an incredibly large amount of police, things happened quickly. Without thought, the entire crowd burst into the factory, searching every room for the girls and the man bent on destroying Sherlock. They finally found them, the girls still bound to the chairs but no sign of Moriarty. Greg ran quickly to the girls while Sherlock continued searching frantically for his enemy, knowing he wouldn’t actually find him; he was long gone. However, a note was pinned to Alice’s chest.

Our new game is just beginning Sherlock.

They got the girls untied and Greg departed with Alice back to her flat while Sherlock left with Anne to Baker Street, wanting John to take a look at the small wound on her head.


	16. Chapter 16

Greg wouldn’t let go of Alice as he helped her to her apartment. Still a bit traumatized, she was shaking and tears were flowing down her cheeks. He sat her down on her couch and went into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea. As she sipped on it, he held her close, placing kisses in her hair, on her cheek, in her palm. Her tea finished, she set her cup gingerly on the table and turned her face to Greg.  
“I am so sorry. I know you saw him kiss me but please know that I didn’t kiss him back. I didn’t want to; I didn’t enjoy it. I...”  
But her words were interrupted when Greg pressed his lips against hers, kissing her deeper and more passionately than he ever had before. They kissed until both were nearly breathless and they finally broke apart.  
“So you’re not mad at me then?” Alice asked, looking at him.  
“Not at all. I know you had no choice and I know you would never cheat on me with some other man. I care about you so much and I’m just so glad you’re safe.”  
“I care about you too. Very much.”  
“I know you and I both have our bad histories with relationships and dread the thought of labels. But, all things considered, would it be alright if I called you my girlfriend?”  
“Nothing would bring me greater pleasure.”  
And with that, she leaned up and pressed her mouth against his. His lips parted, allowing her entrance as her tongue began exploring. His hands ran down her sides and one made its way to her lower back. At the brushing of his fingers past a part near the center, Alice moaned into his mouth a bit and began kissing him with even more passion, her hands gripping in his hair. Without much more thought, Greg scooped the tiny girl up into his arms and began carrying her into the bedroom.  
“What are you doing?” she asked, smiling at him.  
“Oh...things that that creep Moriarty only dreams he could have done,” Greg replied, placing her gently on the bed as he closed the door behind them with a touch of his foot.


	17. Chapter 17

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock helped a still-dazed Anne into the flat and back into his bed. The blood on her head had dried but her head still spun, probably a combination from the slap and leftover effects of being thrown against a wall.  
“John! John!” he yelled, hoping his flatmate was home.  
John ran into the room, took one look at Anne, and knelt besides her. He examined the cut, cleaned it up, and gave her an overall check to make sure she was okay.  
“I think she seems okay.”  
“Thank you John. Can you give us a moment?”  
John left the room, giving Sherlock a questioning look, but not saying anything; he closed the door behind him.  
Sherlock looked at Anne with a very serious look on his face.  
“Anne, I need to know, did he defile you in any way? Any way at all?”  
“No, no. The only thing that happened was that attempt at a kiss you saw.”  
“Alright.”  
“Why do you need to know?”  
“Just...health reasons...”  
Sherlock leaned in very close to Anne, so close she could feel his warm breath on her lips.   
“Sherlock,” she practically whispered, “what are you doing?”  
He hesistated a moment, staring into her eyes.  
“Checking for concussion,” he said, rising quickly to his feet.  
Anne looked at him again, not sure she believed him.  
“Then why were your pupils dilated?” she asked.  
Sherlock just stared at her, not saying a word, then quickly turned to leave the room.  
“Get some sleep,” he said, closing the door behind him.

. . .

Sherlock entered the living room, moving directly to the window, grabbing his violin in the process. He began playing a mournful tune as John slowly approached him.  
“You love her.”  
“What?” Sherlock said, ceasing his playing.  
“You love her.”  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, resuming his playing.  
“Yes, yes you do. I’ve been watching the two of you and you definitely love her. I know you say you don’t feel sentiment but I know that’s not true. You care about me, you care about Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade. And Molly. But love is another thing entirely. You always said that relationships were not your area and I believed you. I knew the only “relationship” you could ever be in was with yourself because god knows you love yourself. Then Anne walks into your life and it became clear.”  
“What did?”  
“That Anne is the only girl on the planet for you.”  
“What? Why?”  
“Because Anne is you.”  
Sherlock just gave him a confused look.  
“Anne is the female version of you; she is constantly bored, deduces people on first sight, gets a weird thrill out of crime scenes, which I still don’t understand, by the way. If you can be with anyone, it’s Anne. You say sentiment is a weakness, but I think Anne has proved it to be your greatest strength with her.”  
Sherlock just looked at John for a moment and John could see the gears turning in his head, processing what he just said.  
“Just promise me you’ll at least think about it. Because I know she loves you too; although if she is anything like you, and she is, she doesn’t realize it quite yet.  
And with that, John walked back into his room and Sherlock resumed his playing, the haunting notes of his song filling the flat as thoughts of Anne flooded his head.


	18. Chapter 18

The next morning, Anne awoke, the ache in her head finally gone. She rubbed her eyes, placing where exactly she was. In Sherlock’s bed again. She sure did seem to wake up a lot here. After slowly coming to consciousness, she realized there was a small weight on her hip. She rolled over to find Sherlock next to her, hand resting lightly on her. Yawning, she started to sit up and get out of bed.  
“Wait,” Sherlock said, awakened by her movements.  
Anne lay back down, rolling over so she was facing Sherlock. With great hesitation, he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers, kissing her slowly, carefully, as if logging every detail and sensation in his brain. When he finally pulled away, Anne just looked at him,  
“What the hell was that for?” she asked him, incredibly confused.  
“Just confirming a hypothesis.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“Anne, I love you.”  
“Come again?”   
“I love you. Or at least, John says I do. And, after a night of considering the data, I must agree with his conclusion.”  
“Wow, way to romance a girl. I thought you didn’t believe in sentiment.”  
“I don’t. I believe it to be a weakness that opens a person up for great defeat. And I know you believe the same thing. However, with us, it seems to have become our greatest strength. You and I are essentially the same person and the only people we could actually be in a relationship with is ourselves. While the logic of that still escapes me, I feel that a relationship between us would actually be very advantageous.”  
“Okay, I think you just asked me to be your girlfriend.”  
“Yes, in simpler terms, I did.”  
“Sherlock, I understand where you think emotion is a bad thing and I do, for the most part, agree. But I also think it is okay to express your feelings for someone, especially if you claim to love that person.”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“Oh good grief, Sherlock, just kiss me.”  
And with that, she leaned in and kissed him with all the passion that had been building up over the past few weeks but she had only now just realized was there. Alice was right, she did love Sherlock. Yes she was intrigued by his intellect and enjoyed the element of excitement he brought to her life; she would definitely never be bored. But she really, truly loved him too. As she kissed him, her hands wandered over his bare chest as his tangled in her hair, to bring her closer to him. His tongue gently prodded at her lips and she opened them, granting him entrance. He kissed her like a man who had never kissed anyone before and was just discovering the wonderful sensations it could bring. As they broke apart, Anne smiled at him.  
“What?” he asked.  
“For a man who claims to hide emotions so well, your body often betrays you.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Your pupils are incredibly dilated right now and your heart is racing,” she replied, planting a string of kisses down his neck and onto his collar bone. He gasped a bit as his grip in her hair tightened.  
“Oh, and it seems another part of your body just betrayed you,” she said with a smirk, for the first time realizing he was, once again, completely naked.  
Sherlock gave her a snarky grin, leaning into kiss her again,  
“Well, let’s see if your body has betrayed you as well,” he said, noticing how wide her own pupils were blown as he rolled on top of her.


	19. Chapter 19

A few weeks later, everyone seemed quite happy. Greg and Alice were blissfully adorable together. Anne and Sherlock were thrilled in the thing they called a relationship, although it admittedly seemed weird to everyone else around them considering their idea of a romantic date night usually involved a crime scene. Even John had a new girlfriend. In fact, one night, he was coming back from a particularly good date with her, when the smile on his face was abruptly killed when he entered his flat. Anne was on the floor, a sword held in her hand. Sherlock was standing above her, foot on her chest, and a sword of his own at her throat.  
“What the hell are you doing?!” he yelled, prepared to jump in at Anne’s defense.  
Sherlock removed his foot as Anne jumped to her feet. Then both of them flung their swords into the already quite abused wall. They both looked at John and shouted in unison,  
“Bored!” 


End file.
